Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Here on the blog, in 2010, I
first shared something I’d been doing privately for years: the “I
Did It List”—looking back and noting what I’d accomplished in those quickly
disappearing twelve months, even if it wasn’t what I’d set out
to do. I’d been making a personal “I Did It List” since my kids were small, since I was sure I hadn’t done a single motherhood thing right all year. The list
assured me otherwise.

At some point, I began to make an “I Did It List” for my
writing life. The idea was—still is!—to pause and take note of all the small things,
big things, and in-between things I could say I finished, learned, tried,
succeeded at, explored, completed, was challenged by, overcame, and took part in over the year.

By design, the list is not (only) about what got published or where, what I earned, what job or gig I nailed. It’s wider, and
deeper, or in some cases, shallower than that.
An “I Did It List” for writers, I’ve always sensed, has to include and
acknowledge so many other things that happen across an entire year, stuff that
counts. The things we do—sometimes without our even stopping to realize it—that keep
us growing, learning, and developing as writers.

I write my "I Did It List" without reference to the list of intended
goals from the previous January. This kind of list-making isn’t about
accountability or productivity, but about acknowledgement and recognizing what makes a writing life year in broader terms.

. began researching more publication markets and then kept track of submissions

. finally stopped putting two spaces after sentences

. tried a new genre

. was a beta reader for a friend’s manuscript

. organized a writers group because none existed nearby

. read lots more than usual

. started, and sustained, a new early morning writing
routine

. saved up and finally went to that conference

. published first (poem, short story, reported feature)

. cleared a spot for a writing corner

. took a writing class online

. taught a free writing class to senior citizens

. submitted beyond the comfort zone

. wrote and placed first book review

. found a social media home and began promoting work in a way that felt good

. filled out that MFA application

. ripped up that MFA application

. got re-started and kept in motion on a big writing project
that had been stalled

. tried new software

As writers, we are too quick to dismiss our small(er)
accomplishments, the small steps or steady strides that carry us forward toward
larger goals. Especially at this time of year, we may be tempted to focus on what we didn’t finish, didn’t get done, didn’t accomplish—and then shoot
straight to a new must-do
list for the coming year, one that too often smacks of recrimination.

First, let’s pause to look back and take note of the ways we’ve
already begun moving in the direction of our dreams. The list is a
way of noticing ourselves as do-ers.

A writer’s “I Did It List” is a clear reminder that there
isn’t just one goal, one imperative, one project or avenue of development, or only one fun and enriching writerly thing to accomplish. My past lists remind me of what brought me fulfillment,
of the new creative people who came into my life, and how I added to my skills,
confidence, and understanding of why I write after all.

So, here’s your invitation to write your own “I Did It List”.
Find fifteen quiet minutes before January 1, 2018, grab a piece of lovely paper
and your favorite pen, or open an inviting new blank page on your screen, or find the ideal place in your bullet journal.

Write across the top, My Writer’s I Did
It List, 2017. Go ahead. Take the pause. Pat yourself on the
back. You can even get started by listing just one “I Did It List” item in
comments here, so we can have a collective “We Did It List”!

While you’re at it, or after you’ve done your own list, I’d
love if you would share a link to this post, and encourage your other creative
friends to make their own “I Did It List”.

Friday, December 8, 2017

> Do you love "Best books of 2017" lists? Then check out this compilation of ALL the lists, conveniently linked. Largehearted Boy has got you covered. (Fair warning -- you need time for this list of lists!)

> One of my pet editing peeves is telling, then showing; or showing, then telling; or (horrors!), telling, showing, and then telling again. Allison K. Williams has a cure for that, and related ailments, over at the Brevity Blog.

> I had fun sending in my own 13-word love story, when the New York Times' Modern Love column put out a call for them earlier this fall (to celebrate 13 years of ML). Mine didn't get selected, but these did.

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Fifth in a series, following Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter’s Memoir of Love after Loss, from
manuscript to published book (University of Nevada Press, May 1, 2018). Find the rest of the series here.

Once I
got a publication date, other writers began to ask: How long did the submission
process take? What was it like? How did you find your publisher?

The
short, pithy answers: Eleven months. Hell. Not the way I thought.

That’s
handy shorthand, but hardly helpful. Here’s the longer story, the one from
which you might glean some helpful hints.

I
first thought I might have a book percolating in 2012, when I realized that many of the essays I was getting published, might add up to…something. Quite a few were connected
thematically around my father’s death, and I thought if I wrote a few more, voila -- linked essay collection. (Can I over-emphasize how common this
thinking is among essayists—and how often wrong-headed?) I tried to get that
one published but eventually realized it had to be transformed into a more
traditional memoir. (In a future post I’ll detail the essays-to-memoir process,
so let’s skip ahead to April 2016, when I had a polished memoir manuscript.)

I am a
fan of traditional independent and boutique literary presses and university
presses, many of which accept non-agented submissions. I had already been
compiling a spreadsheet of such publishers, organized first by those I most
desired (because they’d published books I admired), and those that seemed most
logical (given the book’s thematic elements).

I noted any special submission
calls, possible connection/recommendation, contests and open/closed submission
periods, and finally, but not incidentally, any hunches I had. Next—because I
so love a spreadsheet—I cross-referenced what each required initially, usually some
combination of query letter, synopsis, proposal, sample chapters, the entire
manuscript, marketing plan, author bio.

From
April through January, I marched down my list, garnering both lightning-fast
rejections as well as several requests for chapters, and a few for the whole
manuscript. Result: slower rejections. Sure, some were personal, from editors
who seemed genuinely to have read and thought carefully about the work.

Still,
no is no.

Over
those 10 months, I scratched some publishers off my list—they shuttered
operations or their lists shrunk; some seemed less likely candidates after more
careful study; sometimes I simply decided they wouldn’t want my book for some random
reason which now seems silly. At the same time, the list grew as I discovered
new-to-me publishers. What is it that we say about hope springing?

Along
the way, I tinkered with the idea of seeking an agent—mostly because the advice
of a book coach I’d consulted two years before, still resonated: there was
nothing to lose and quite possibly something enormous to gain. About once a
week, I spent time researching agents I might query—sometime. A small list
emerged, tucked into another spreadsheet.

By the
end of January, my energy was flagging, but I realized I had not made enough effort
querying university presses. I had at least a dozen on my list I’d be thrilled
to be published by. They all wanted a full proposal or some combination of the elements
of a proposal, and while I’d written one, I kept tinkering, never sure it was right.
Finally, I started sending it out.

By
mid-February the full manuscript was under review at two boutique publishers, a
more commercial press, and one university press. I’d gotten to this stage
before—and then heard no. And sent out more queries, sample chapters, hopes.

That’s
when I glanced out my window late one dark, cold Thursday afternoon, and
noticed the snow. So much snow. A big storm coating New England to Virginia.
Suddenly all the Facebook posts I’d seen from writers cancelling trips to theAWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs) conference in Washington, D.C,
made sense.

I
hadn’t planned on going. But suddenly I had a thought: all those cancellations
must mean the conference headquarters hotel would have a lot of available
rooms. I was only a four-hour drive from D.C., and my four-wheel-drive SUV—and
I, who once lived in Syracuse—could easily handle the lingering snow in the
forecast.

By 5
a.m. the next morning, I was on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading south.

Typically,
when I go to a conference, I have an agenda—connect with this editor, meet that
publisher, make IRL friends with Facebook writer buddies, take notes at Famous
Writer’s presentation, go to Other Famous Writer’s reading. Network. Pitch. Buy
discounted journals. Get books signed. I’m usually exhausted even before I put
on my nametag.

As I
drove, I realized I had no plan—and that felt great. I had not studied the
schedule, didn’t know who would be in the exhibit hall, who was reading where
or when. My only agenda was to find friends, drop in at panels that seemed
promising, maybe wander the book fair.

Ah, the
book fair: a cavernous space (about three football fields?) where hundreds of
tables beckoned, where friendly literary folks were promoting, selling, and giving
away journals and books, touting other writing conferences, offering free
trials of software, sharing the virtues of MFA programs, reading series, residencies.

I spent
most of my book fair time happily meandering, spontaneously connecting in person
with journal and anthology editors who’d published my work, finding new things to read, tossing swag
into my tote.

At
some point, I realized some publishers and university presses still on my list were
there. I noticed that since I wasn’t in I-Must-Complete-My-Agenda
mode, my usually nervous chatter disappeared. Instead of trying to sell myself,
and by extension, my manuscript, I was only making new friends in the writing
world.

Several
asked me to send the manuscript when I got home. Others said it wasn’t right
for them. Somehow, I had the same reaction to both outcomes: okay! I simply
continued wending my may through the exhibit hall.

Finally,
in the last 20 minutes of the final day, vendors were packing up their
booths—and my tote was swelling because they were handing out free books so as
not to incur return shipping costs. I noticed a man packing up, a welcoming
smile on his face. We began chatting, about how much our feet hurt. About the
conference. He asked something—I can’t remember what—and I began to tell him
about my manuscript. In my mind, we were just having a conversation. Two tired
writing world comrades at the end of an exhausting weekend.

At
some point though, when I mentioned that the story takes place partly in New
Jersey, and partly in Las Vegas, he pointed to the banner above his head:
University of Nevada Press. Nevada,
you know, home to Las Vegas.

Justin
Race, director of UNV Press, introduced
himself, and invited me to send him the first few chapters when I got home. He
liked what he read, and asked for the full manuscript. By March 22, I had an
offer. Two hours later, one of the other publishers who had the full manuscript phoned to make an offer too.

I
realize that this part of the story makes it all sound so easy—bump into
someone at a conference and the rest is publishing kismet. I assure you,
nothing about bringing this memoir to that point was easy.

The
thing is, I was ready. The manuscript had been revised and revised and
polished. I’d researched and prepared query/submission materials. My
spreadsheet tells the plodding, painstaking backstory of those 11 months (and
before that, the submission process of the book’s previous incarnation).

What
happens when you’ve been hearing no for
a long time and in one afternoon, you hear yes—twice? After the elation, I
mean? You get confused, that’s what. You wish you had an agent after all…

I’ll
pick up from there in the next Memoir Book Report post, sharing how, over
the next week, I found an agent, weighed offers, and
said—yes!

Monday, November 20, 2017

Occasionally
a writer I meet at a conference (or online) confides that it’s hard to find
other writers where they live. I have no idea what that might be like: the part
of northern New Jersey where I live might be dubbed Writerville. Stephanie
Urdang lives here too, though she was born in Cape Town, South Africa. Her memoir,
Mapping My Way Home: Activism,
Nostalgia, and the Downfall of Apartheid South Africawill be published this
month. She is also the author of two books on Africa, including And Still They Dance: Women, War, and the
Struggle for Change in Mozambique. Stephanie is currently working on a book
with a survivor of the 1994 Rwandan genocide (forthcoming in spring 2019).

Please welcome Stephanie Urdang

It
took me about ten years – but who’s counting – to complete my memoir, Mapping My Way Home. It is taking me
about one year to write a book with a survivor of the 1994 genocide in Rwanda,
who was eleven at the time.

The first book is my story, my
history, my memories. It charts the events on the international stage -- in
which I was a participant or close observer -- that contributed to the end of
apartheid. In the process of writing it, sub-themes raised their heads and
demanded space as leit-motifs: the sense of home, the nagging of nostalgia, the
concept of exile, all interlinked.

The second book is Gustave
Mukurarinda’s harrowing but courageous story. It is his story, his history, his memories. I am writing it in close
collaboration, in the mode of creative nonfiction. We are co-authors. I am
the writer. But he is the storyteller.

My memoir was my first sortie into
creative nonfiction. It was a learning curve. I had to tap into a more literary
style of writing, freeing myself to explore more evocative and lyrical ways to
bring a scene to life, to describe a context. I had to rein in my tendency
toward streams of consciousness that sent my narrative veering off course; I
had to subdue, no exorcise, an inner voice that would exclaim “Who the f*#k I
am to write about my life!”. I had to learn
to scale the inevitable writer’s blocks that told me I was incapable of doing
justice to this project. And I had to allow
myself to relish, in the moment, the highs when my writing was flowing and it
felt right.

Writing
my own memoir provided basic tools for writing the Rwanda book, which is still
in draft. But writing a memoir in collaboration
is a very different undertaking, although some of what I had practiced in my
own memoir could be applied: forgoing my first-instinct journalistic style and adopt
a more literary style; thinking more
intentionally about craft; taking a
critical scene remembered in just a few snippets, and fleshing it out, completing
with dialogue; transforming an often fabulous but too lengthy anecdote or scene
and trimming it to size so that it doesn’t dominate.

Writing in collaboration is another
learning curve entirely. From it I can tease out a few lessons that for me were
“musts”.

The
need for trust. Without mutual trust and respect the collaboration
will founder. In our case, trust began some ten years ago. I had established a
small US-based NGO, Rwanda Gift for Life, that partnered with African Rights, in
Kigali. The project supported women who had been raped during the genocide and
were living with AIDS. Gustave was on the staff of African Rights and acted as
my interpreter when I visited Rwanda. We spent many days together. Later, he
stayed at my New Jersey home for a few weeks on his way to Canada where he now
lives. Once we began working together, I could appreciate that more than
friendship was needed. Without a deep sense of mutual trust, a writing project
such as ours could not move forward. There are times when this trust is tested.
When he doesn’t approve of the way I am casting a scene, when he thinks the
narrative is veering in the wrong direction, we are able to discuss, and where
necessary, come to a compromise. We move on, knowing that the next glitch will
be met with the same mutual respect, the same trust.

Need for clarity about scope. There
should be as few surprises as possible. We made our expectations clear from the
beginning, including the audience, the writing process, the deadlines. Before I
began to record his story, we talked about the nature of creative nonfiction,
how my intent was to produce a narrative that reads like fiction. We agreed the
book would target a young adult readership, while also appealing to adults. Based
on this understanding, and our lengthy interviews, I drafted three sample
chapters. Gustave liked how I was conveying his story, how I was portraying his
voice. Only after this did we feel confident moving forward. We agreed on the
publisher’s terms and both signed the contract. We could begin in earnest.

Accept that this is not the writer’s story. Even with the best of intentions, it’s too
easy to get carried away, and begin to think that the book is the writer’s
alone, given the thought and hard work that goes into drafting it. I had to be
careful not to imprint myself onto the story, and to stay true to Gustave’s voice.
Ultimately every word is to be approved by him, it is his story, his family’s
story, not mine.

Accept criticism without defensiveness. There were times when, as a westerner, even
though I grew up in South Africa, even though I have written widely and for
decades on Africa, I discovered that I was not as sensitive to Rwandan culture
as I would have presumed. I made assumptions, or used language that caused him discomfort.
I tended to pride myself that I wouldn’t fall into such traps. I did. He pointed
them out politely when he deserved to be annoyed.

For
example, cows are central to Rwandan culture. They are revered. I described Gustave’s
father’s herd as containing Jerseys, Friesians, and “skinny African” cows. I recalled
seeing cows that were, well, skinny. But this is no benign, neutral term. It
was an insult. It reflects western bias. I apologized when he pointed it out. I
was able to laugh at myself; he was able to laugh at me. Another similar lesson:
I created dialogue between his brother and mother that was inappropriate to
Rwandan culture where children were expected to be polite and respectful of
adults and not assume to join in adult conversation unless invited. When he points
out the error of my ways, all I feel is relief. It allows me to feel safer in
my role as writer of his story, knowing that I will be challenged when I don’t
get it right. This too reflects trust.

Figuring out structure. Structure can be a real challenge for memoir
writers. There is a life-time of material
to draw on, so much that seems vital, but in the end really isn’t, that getting
the flow and arc can be daunting. There is a deep emotional connection. But
writing someone else’s story means the writer comes to the project from a
distance and can discern the narrative’s scaffolding earlier on. In my case, this process began soon after
Gustave’s stories poured out during our many hours of skype interviews and I
became energized by the twists and turns of this action-packed narrative. The
story pulls me along without me being stuck trying to see the wood for the
trees. And so I am less encumbered to
push the story forward, even as sometimes it brings me to tears.

I have come to see, that when a memoir
is written in collaboration, the story teller is the one to give birth. The
writer is the midwife.

Stephanie
would be delighted to answer any reader questions left in the comments over the
next week or so. She’d also love to give one of my blog readers a signed copy
of her book. Enter by leaving a comment by Sunday, Dec. 3. [Must have a U.S.
postal shipping address.]

Monday, November 13, 2017

A lot of writers have a particular writing discomfort zone. For me, it's when I'm trying to write on topics that I feel shaky about, issues that I wonder: do I have the right, the authority, to write about this? Or, that? It's when I seriously ask myself if writing about a particularly vexing experience or situation is territory I want to wade out into, and once there, will I even know what to do?

Then, one of two things happen: I either scribble a few lines in a notebook or start a draft on the computer, but walk away before I even really get started. I decide, this is not my topic, and writing about it is not something I feel confident about. Sometimes though, I plunge ahead: draft and write and revise and edit the darned thing. But then I often sit on it until either the moment passes and I'm fairly sure no publication would be interested anyway--or, I polish it up, swallow that rock in my throat, and hit send.

That's what happened with my most recently published essay, "Unspoken Words that Begin with N (even when they don't)" which found a home at The Nervous Breakdown. Perhaps what propelled me to write and finish (and publish) this time lies in the title itself: things unspoken must be discussed, must be aired, acknowledged and examined.

The imprinted, ugly words some of us heard as children, when we were being formed --connected to race, words that illustrate racist thought and action even in places we don't want to admit it existed--do lodge in our core, and crawl back out, unbidden, years or decades later. I thought that was worth discussing, in 2017, in America.

After I sent the piece in, I was fortunate to have good editorial feedback and guidance from TNB editors Chelsey Clammer and Bernard Grant. I love it when I get that kind of collaboration, and I was especially grateful for it on this piece, because even after submitting, I still had one foot firmly planted in the writing discomfort zone.

We worked back and forth to be sure that the nuance was clear, that as narrator I was exposing flaws without asking for sympathy, and that the piece asked readers to think, not simply nod in agreement. I admit, I had some nervous moments during editing, worrying that the writing stood up to seriousness of the subject matter, that I wasn't being self-indulgent or whiny on the page. I wanted to add something to the conversation about what we carry around from childhood, not simply bemoan it.

At some point, I remembered something one of my writing mentors had once told me: If we only write what's comfortable, what's the point? And, this from another: The only time anything good happens on the page in nonfiction, is when we write outside our comfort zone.

I hope you will read the essay in full, here. And I welcome your thoughts on writing in your own personal discomfort zone.

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Some writers that I like very much I’m just not able to stay in steady
contact with, but I’m always happy when we cross paths. Like Martha Moffett, a
New Jersey writer I like to talk to anytime we’re in the same room. Marthawas born at the end of a dirt road in St. Clair
County, Alabama, worked in book and magazine publishing in New York City, and has
written for Cosmopolitan, New York
Magazine, and British Heritage.
She’s also worked as a librarian, and is now a freelance editor and
ghostwriter. Her novels include The
Common Garden and Dead Rock Singer.
She’s also the recipient of fellowships from the Florida State Council on the
Arts individual fellowships, and Yaddo.

Please welcome
Martha Moffett

My
plan, this past summer, was to work on one story and get it polished and ready
for rejection by Alaska Quarterly, One
Story, and Glimmer Train, some of
my favorite journals.

That’s an inside joke for “The Rejection
Club,” four writers who decided to send out work at a fast clip and to keep
score and compare notes. The winner
(loser) with the most rejections was assigned to treat the rest of us to a bottle
of wine in our favorite pub at the end of a year.

I had traditionally sent out one story to
one journal and waited for a response. Sometimes it was months in coming.
Sometimes it never came. We had two thoughts about the general wisdom of this: If
they don’t respond promptly, they aren’t interested. Or, if they keep your work
a long time, they are seriously considering it. We weren’t convinced of either
but knew thatat this
rate, months became years and the work waited patiently in my computer. My
three writer friends followed more or less the same routine.

But after Kim Liao’s article “Why You
Should Aim for 100 Rejections a Year” circulated on the Internet in June of
2016, we rethought our position. In addition to increasing our submissions, I
said, “Let’s make it a competition. Who can get the most rejections fastest?”

That same summer, it was on my calendar to
take a workshop with Lisa Romeo at The Writers’ Circle called
Submission Strategy. Lisa’s spreadsheet was a revelation to me. I began to keep
better records of what I sent, where I sent it, the date, the
outcome—rejections, yes, but as Lisa also said, record any feedback you get.

The four of us had a backlog of
unpublished work. We’d met in a workshop where one of us was finishing a novel
set in New York City and Italy; another was working on a crime novel; the third
member’s novel was about an American family and how it changed over two
generations; and I was bringing my chapters of a novella to workshop to be
picked over for the problems of consistency, tone, and point of view. In addition,
we all had stories, essays, short-shorts, and other bits and pieces in reserve.

We proceeded to build our attack. We met
and exchanged literary journals, to improve our knowledge of what they printed
and what the editors liked. I came home with an armload of Ploughshares, which I had never read despite its reputation, and I
passed out copies of Chattahoochee Review,
where I’d been lucky in the past. I had a lot of back issues of One Story for the taking. I picked up Gulf Coast, New Letters, and Bellingham Review.

We sometimes got the same standard
rejection letter from different journals. And we discovered favorite tropes:

“Although your story was not selected, it
does not mean it was without merit.”

And our current favorite:

“We were blown away by the quality of this
year’s contest submissions . . . “

But we learned a lot. First, to
take any word of encouragement as an invitation: “We liked your long story but there was no room for it in this issue.”
Or, better, “Try us again.” A
personal note from an editor in an email that showed she’d read and thought
about our work, or a scribbled note in pencil on a standard postal rejection
was to us fit for framing.

We
got better at matching our work to certain journals. We now send out work in
batches, not one solitary story bearing our only hopes for publication. Our
common effort has lessened the pain of rejection—and has given us many laughs. We’re
ready to start a new wave of stories flying in all directions, electronically and
by snail mail.

In
her article, Kim Liao writes that early on, a friend once told her, “Shoot for
one hundred rejections in a year, because if you work that hard to get so many
rejections, you’re sure to get a few acceptances too.”

We in The Rejection Club know it’s going
to work.

In fact, it has already worked! A few days
ago, I received news that I had won the Faulkner-Wisdom Competition for The Novella, sponsored by Pirate's Alley
Faulkner Society and selected by the author Stewart O'Nan. I know my writing
friends will soon follow with their acceptances. And that bottle of wine is waiting.

Friday, November 3, 2017

> Late the other night I found time to read this fabulous piece in the Sunday NY Times Magazine on extraordinary nonfiction writer John McPhee, and how he works. (The online version linked here includes drawings and diagrams of how he envisions, designs, and writes into the carefully crafted structures that hold up his books and articles.)

> Finally, I've just started down the dark and alluring path of book PR (since the memoir is now listed on severalonlineretailers), and well...one could so easily go overboard. So I found this funny/snarky piece, "How You Can Help Me Sell My Book," at McSweeneys' spot-on (and a little scary). Precious blog readers, if I get annoying in my book excitement, do tell me!

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Since joining a Facebook page where local writers gather, I’ve discovered
many more Garden State writers, including Nicole Rollender. A 2017 NJ Council
on the Arts poetry fellow, she is the author of the poetry collection, Louder Than Everything You Love (Five
Oaks Press), and four poetry chapbooks. She has won poetry prizes from Gigantic Sequins, CALYX Journal, Princemere
Journal and Ruminate Magazine,
and her work appears in Alaska Quarterly
Review, Best New Poets, The Journal, and West Branch. Nicole is associate editor of THRUSH Poetry Journal, and holds an MFA from the Pennsylvania State
University.

Please
welcome Nicole Rollender.

Have you
heard of micro-chimerism, where a mother holds her children’s cells in her body
– in her brain, hand, foot, even floating around, for her whole life? It’s an
amazing concept, that our bodies are part of other bodies. That’s how I look at
poetry – my words becoming part of other people’s memories, part of their
bodies. In this way, I know why poetry is important and essential.

From a young age, poetry stirred something inside me – I felt excited, alive,
tingling and connected while reading and writing poetry. I was obsessed with
its technicalities: enjambment (line breaks), slant and internal rhyme,
caesuras (internal line pauses). I devoured every poetry book I could find,
looking at how poems were made, how I could poach that technique, that angle,
and make it my own. How I could make my own poems sing and become a plank a
reader can walk across (echoing James K. Baxter who says the poem is “a plank
laid over the lion’s den”). I wanted to make poems to help other people feel
less alone. I wanted to become part of other human beings.

Matthew
Zapruder calls the poem a machine. The poem’s also a room, a house, a
country, a world, a space of encounter as tiny or large as the poet or you, the
reader, want it to be. Poems are meant to be read and passed on, and when you
read a poem it’s easy to imagine the poet is speaking to you or for you, or writing
you a letter from far away. Poems can also bring us news from a vantage point
in the past or future, or from another continent. And, you don’t have to know
exactly what the poet meant when writing the poem – the poem’s meaning is what
you need in your life at that moment.

Aren’t we all afraid to die? Poems can help us come to terms with death. Heavy
stuff, right? Many poets, including Robert Lowell, say their initial encounters with poetry occurred when facing a human or animal death
for the first time. The poem was a way to make sense of the experience. “Necro-poetry”
is also about elegy, memorializing others. We can go to a poem when we want to
remember or celebrate someone who has passed.

Max Ritvo was a 25-year-old poet who died of
cancer a year ago. Much of his work documented his battle with Ewing’s sarcoma,
which he contracted at 16. He extended his cancer narrative into a larger compelling
collection of work about the body.. He lived his life with such a visceral intimacy:
a bowl of blueberries was holy; he’d breathe air in a church, feeling in instant
communion with those who’d worshipped there before him.

In his staggering
poem, “Afternoon,” he writes, “When I was about to die / my body lit up /
like when I leave my house / without my wallet. What am I missing? I ask,
patting my chest pocket.” He also writes: “I’m missing everything living that
won’t come with me/ into this sunny afternoon.” This poem is filled with a
sadness and longing for connection with what Ritvo won’t be able to connect
with, what he’s going to leave behind.

In a New Republic interview, Ritvosaid this about what good poetry
does to you: “When your memories, things you’ve never disclosed to anyone,
start appearing in your mind as you read the poem. When you discover that a
poem links up to a chain of images from your own life like a song links up to
its music video.” In this way, Ritvo
wrote his own elegies.

In Jim
Harrison’s short poem, “Sister,” he writes an elegy for his deceased sibling: “You
were buried at nineteen/ in wood with Daddy. I’ve spent a lifetime / trying to
learn the language of the dead.” Those hard-hitting lines are followed and
juxtaposed by this gorgeous line: “The musical chatter of the tiny yellow
finches / in the front yard comes closest.” We can hear that gaggle of loud
finches; we can hear his sister’s voice. We know we don’t mourn our dead alone.

I’m fascinated
again and again by memory’s power to let us mingle again and again with the
dead, but also how it teaches us how quickly our lives move away from the
current moment.

I live with a strong sense of mortality that often
informs my work, and I often contend
with heavier topics like death, the spirit realm, God, saints and the
afterlife. Of course, I experience joy in my life, and that permeates my work.
I also have a strong sense that what I have (and who and my own life) can just
as easily be taken away, so when celebration does enter my work it’s with a
sense of caution (it casts its own shadow). My poems live as artifact: They’re
my attempt to create something beautiful from the imperfect and temporal world
we inhabit.

My poem,
“The Return,” (it first appeared
in Word Riot) was influenced in part by the concerns in Ritvo’s work. My uncle does a lot of family genealogy
and just a few years ago told me my great-grandmother’s name – I hadn’t known
it -- was Florentine Bia, a woman who fled Russia in the early 1900s. I wanted
to memorialize her, but also share the same air. I wanted us both to be alive
in the same poem:

The Returnfor Florentine Bia

I’ve imagined my
great-grandmother in love,
her hands deep in a pig’s meat she rolled

into sausages. Blood’s
aldehydic stench. Large clocks
laughing all over the house. Massive dark beds. Her long dress

licking the top of her
foot. She remembered the geese
her mother strangled, the sound a whine just before

the final breath, the
first time they made love. I didn’t exist.
I wonder if she felt her own death, her hands limp

on the bed after, the
wind pulled out of her,
if when she finally spoke, look at the starlight,

look, her voice meeting that light would carry forward
to this day, when I say aloud, Florentine, Florentine,

we are both alive in
this poem, my hands deep in
tomato hearts,
the man I’ve chosen to love somewhere in the garden,

his words still
vibrating: What you do is wake
the dead. You don’t let them sleep.

Sadness and joy come and go, but weaving
their imagery together does create
something indelible that doesn’t fade or lose its sharp prick – that I will never know
my great-grandmother, that my gardens will bloom, fade and die each year. In
this poem, I’m celebrating small miracles of joy in the quotidian. This
necklace of memories is what makes me nostalgic for a time and a self and
others’ lives I can never return to – each day closer to the end of this life,
and closer to the next. Frankly, I’m still afraid of death: The thought of
leaving my children makes me shudder. I’d need to be dragged into the next
world.

I’ll leave
you with Audre Lorde’s point that there are no new ideas. We’re all living the
same shared experiences. However, she says, there are new ways of making these
ideas felt “of examining what our ideas really mean (feel like) on Sunday
morning at 7 a.m., after brunch, during wild love, making war, giving birth;
while we suffer the old longings, battle the old warnings and fears of being
silent and impotent and alone, while tasting our new possibilities and
strengths.”

There’s
courage in writing and reading poetry – in building that plank and also crossing it.